


teeth

by unhappy_matt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean-Centric, F/M, Mini-Fic, Season 1, Vampires, What Measure is a Non-Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/pseuds/unhappy_matt
Summary: Dean shares a chilling encounter with a contact at a bar.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	teeth

**Author's Note:**

> The third prompt fill with Ems' suggestion. The prompt was the song "DNA" by Anna F.

She’s been staring at him from across the room.

Dean lowers the tip of the pool stick, leaning forward to place one quick and precise move with a flick of his wrist. He breaks eye contact, for a moment; but when he looks up, he finds her there again, sitting on the same stool near the counter.

She doesn’t smile, her eyes intent, fixed on him.

She takes a sip of her drink, and tips her head back with an exaggerated arc of her throat. If what she’s having were red wine, he would find the imagery too heavy-handed, even for whatever this game between the two of them is. It’s a clear cocktail instead, maybe something with vodka in it.

Dean straightens his back, assessing the pool table, pretending to be absorbed by each gesture. On the other side of the table, his opponent, a gruff-looking biker type, seems increasingly annoyed; if he starts losing his patience, he will get sloppier, and Dean’s counting on it.

Meanwhile, he shoots another glance in her direction.

She’s not his usual type, although normally he wouldn’t refuse a smile to a beautiful woman, regardless. She’s small, angular, pale, a sharp bob of raven hair framing high cheekbones. A black leather jacket, and slender ankles hugged by the crisscrossing pattern of fishnet stockings.

Her attention should make heat creep up his neck, grabbing his belly in all those deliciously _right_ ways; but it’s not like that, right now, with _her_. _This_ , this is sharper, like a breath of icy hair sliding down every notch in his spine. Like a blade to his throat, and his own pulse drumming against it.

She plays with her straw. She isn’t alone; there are two other guys with her, both of them dressed in dark colors, nursing their beers with cheerful faces like they’re just dying to deck someone. Dean figures he’ll find out soon enough if he’s going to be the one who’ll have to risk taking a swing.

Not every chick who wears black and likes to drink is a vampire, and it would be a pretty crappy excuse for a world if that were the case. With this one, though, he and Sam have a trail. Different location, different faces, not the same group they met with their father. But she and her friends over there are part of a nest, and there’s a connection—she might have valuable information. What either of them is willing to put on the line for it, that remains to be seen.

“Okay, I’m gonna take a break,” he announces to the biker, setting down his stick. His opponent mutters something about Dean being a shitty player and a cheater, slamming down his own stick with excessive force, and storms off.

Dean raises his bottle and finishes his beer, finding himself searching for her gaze again.

She slides off of her seat, graceful and light. She looks young, younger than him—and he’s sure that she isn’t.

She walks up to him. Alone, for the time being, which is promising.

“Hi.” Her voice is a warm, full sound, huskier than he expected. She twirls her empty plastic glass. “I’m Maya.”

She rests her free hand on the wooden rim of the pool table, breathtakingly close to his hip.

He looks her over, his eyes flicking from her small hand to her face. He hadn’t been able to make out the color of her eyes, at first; they’re a golden brown, glittering like embers in the lights.

“Hi,” Dean says noncommittally.

She smiles, in a way that scrunches up her nose and reveals dimples in her cheeks. The cold noose around his throat tightens.

_Something that isn’t alive, but pretends to be. Something that used to be a person, but isn’t._

No sign of her fangs, right now. Not here, in front of so many people. But there’s a sharpness to her, something he recognizes—in himself, as much as he doesn’t like that thought. This creature is a _hunter_ , that much he can _feel_ , even without Sammy’s psychic powers.

One of her friends, or cronies, steps up to them, flanking her like a bodyguard. He’s large, taller than Dean.

Dean lifts his chin and looks up at him, unflinching.

“I’m trying to talk to _her_ ,” he says, calmer than he feels. “Not to you, big guy. Are we gonna have a problem?”

A silent beat passes between her and her friend, and she nods. “It’s alright,” she says. “I’m just gonna be a minute.”

The guy shoots Dean a cutting glance and grimaces, his expression sour. “Okay, Maya.” There’s an undercurrent of an argument the two of them seem to have had before; something disconcertingly similar to the snappy irritation and the pretense of reconciliation that flicker between Dean and Sam, when they decide to declare a conversation closed even though they’re both still seething.

Maya’s friend leaves.

Dean looks at her. He wonders how absurd, exactly, it would be to offer her a _drink_.

“So,” he starts, careful. “I think we have something to discuss, don’t we?”

Her lips are full, plush, heart-shaped. Their color is a delicate pale pink.

Her fingertips stroke his wrist.

“I believe we do,” she says. “ _Dean Winchester._ ”


End file.
